"Where brilliance is good and madness is better..."
Helovia Info
Helovia opened in February 2012! We are an active fantasy equine RPG
Where once the world narrowed into naught but gray dust and desolation, the gods called for life. Wielding the elements of fire and light, dark and wind, earth and water, spark and time, they have created Helovia. The realm is set within the mythical globe of Loorien, a planet rich with all variety of creatures and blessed with all manner of magic. Originally populated by nomadic, tribal characters, they've since grown into massive empires saturated with culture and history. Separated into four distinct segments of Helovia, called "The Regions," each band of horse strong enough and capable enough, took up the power and responsibility of leadership. Unicorns, old, wise and mysterious, took to the north, hidden in forests of mists and shadows and rarely making themselves known beyond their cliffs of the World's Edge. Equines, vast, organized and militaristic, split into two, one group went north to the Windtossed Foothills and the other group went south to the Dragon's Throat. Pegasus remained nomadic, making their homes in various parts of The Wilds in a migratory manner. For many generations, the land was peaceful and calm, but peace was never the way of the gods. With a clash of argument, war and bloodshed massacred Helovia, and in the aftermath, the realm was eerily quiet. Now, as newcomers sweep into this land, they are met with the lingering bitterness of the gods and the struggle to reclaim what was lost. Nothing remains safe or certain while sorcerers and soldiers alike brood and bide their time for revenge, honor and glory.
Site Wide Plots
Kaos :: The Beginning of the End ☼ - 6/2017 - Kaos placed Helovia in a time-bubble for a short period of time, but the Helovian gods are fighting back. But Kaos is powerful- far more powerful than anyone thought. This may be the beginning of the end of Helovia as we know it.
Kisamoa :: A New Kind of Kaos ☼ - 3/2017 - Kisamoa asks Helovians to help him restore the Spectral Marsh. Which side will you choose?
Invasions :: All Out War ☼ - 5/2/16 - New layout and the brand new invasion rules are up! Thank you for your patience and we look forward to getting started with this new adventure.
The Rift :: Gods Do Die ☼ - 8/2015 - Helovia Gods are saving the Rift from corrupt gods! Can Helovians band together against these foreign deities?
The Literal Ship ☼ - 2/8/15 - Oh no! You have to pair up for Valentine's day!
Sky Island :: Murder ☼ - 10/25/14 - Vesta has been found dead on the island, and the gods have called to you to solve the murder!
Sky Island :: Peace ☼ - 7/7/14 - An island has appeared in the sky! Clouds carry Helovians from the Veins to the sky.
Restoration :: We Welcome the Dawn ☼ - 9/21/13 - The sun has finally risen on this day, giving the land new light, but the Time God and the Sun God have yet to be seen.
Endless Night :: Broken Magic Plot ☼ - 8/30/13 - The earth god has returned and is walking across Helovia to heal the land. Every area can now be considered lush and prosperous, but the sun has still not risen.
☼ - 7/19/13 - The moon has risen in the sky, heralding the return of the Goddess of the moon. Lamp trees which light the paths have grown brighter, moon flowers which grow in dark places have begun to grow and prosper and the world is brighter, filled with a new hope.
Endless Night :: Dead Magic Plot ☼ - 6/22/13 - The gods of Helovia, in order to protect the world, have disappeared into the rift, leaving the world sunless, moonless and magic-less in their absence. Only the herdlands have a source of light, but lamp-trees with glowing leaves and branches sporadically line the popular roads and paths from place to place.
Doppleganger Plot ☼ - 6/20/13 - The God of Time is still struggling to close the rift though which the dopplegangers have come. He has requested that his brothers and sister assist in closing this hole, but without knowing why it opened, the task is proving difficult. Magic still remains faulty and hard to control, but the herdlands continue to be places of refuge for those who are fortunate enough to call these lands home.
ORANGEMOON cools off the lands with a a viscious force. Colder than normal, a sign of things to come during Frostfall, Helovia is bathed in a rich tropical lushness - albiet a cold one. The coastlines of the Dragon's Throat are pelted constantly by tidal waves, and the desert climate is humid but chilly. Ice begins to form early in the Aurora Basin leaving the winding trails slick and dangerous. The mists of the World's Edge coat everything in a glistening crystalline shine which encourages mould to grow everywhere. The Spectral Marsh is the only area which remains fertile, blissfully temperature and lush.
Cotm
Character of the Month for
June, 2017
WEAVER, Corporal of the Aurora Basin, is a relatively recent addition to Helovia and has taken it by storm. Branded with the seal of Death on her chest, intrigue and interest follow both her past and present. Though she is assuredly beautiful, her sometimes sharp personality reveals that there is more to this uni-peg hybrid than meets the eye. Proving herself able on the battlefield in the Basin’s warrior ranks, we can’t wait to see her test her mettle against the looming Kaos happenings! Congratulations!
Helovia RPG was created by Tamme and Blu and coded by Tamme also known as Schwartze. All coding, palettes and imagery are copyrighted to the website and are not for use outside of Helovia. Thank you to our ServerMaster for hosting Helovia. A special thanks goes to Neo for all of her coding help and fixing Tamme's errors, Boom, for her loyal service and creation of the Time God, and to Ali for her consistent contributions and dedication.
There was always something about the Steppe that left Sacre feeling breathless, like he was a newborn again chasing Roux in drifts; their minds never lingered long on one game. Like any young colt, he chased after what he wanted with no hesitation or fear, but with the innocence of a child who knew nothing of limitation. He was still very young now, but these days he felt like the world had shown him reality and it left a bitter taste in his mouth, it made him push it away and cling onto his childhood. He let the old memories consume him and cast his head to the wind that breezily loitered atop the mountain, letting out a giddy giggle. Whilst many got lost in their grief and sorrow, Sacre soldiered on with buoyant flair and a bouncy step. He was returning back to where he was born and although there was a lot of apprehension swirling around his mind, there was also a great deal of excitement to visit somewhere that still meant a great deal.
From memory, the colt lead on to where he remembered the entrance being, somewhere a narrow pass should appear and once you travelled down it, one would find themselves at the heart of the Basin. However, with a tug of the heart strings, Sacre realized that he wouldn’t be able to simply walk in anymore, this wasn’t his home and he no longer belonged in the Time Lord’s territory. Finding the path, the boy followed it with familiar steps, the scents that filled his nasals were well-known and Sacre might have lost himself and continued in like old times if it wasn’t for a rather large machine.
Hooves slammed to a halt and a shocked snort burst from his nostrils. ”This wasn’t here before?!” He complained to Inari who stopped by his bonded’s side and looked at the artificial horse with equal puzzlement. Mechanisms ran within it and Sacre almost felt intimidated under its gaze. Not wanting to anger the giant thing nor fail in his task, Sacre called from his position just outside the Basin territory. "Father?" He called hopefully, part of him wanted to shout the name of his twin too, but he was here to bargain not to reminisce and he steeled himself from uttering his brother’s name. "We come on behalf of the Dragons Throat and seek audience with those of influence."
He announced their intentions and then waited.
(Sacre is here to ask a favour! We would like to exchange crafted items, the Dragons Throat offers metal crafting in exchange for an item made by one of your Basin crafters!
@[Alija] @[Voodoo] @[Tandavi] )
She follows with far more trepidation than her bloodstained friend, dark gaze flickering anxiously at every shadow on the snow. Her brother huddles unhappily in a makeshift nest of hair, a built up cavern of tangles and braids which offers scant protection from the miserable cold. Neither copper girl nor ebony fox are anything approaching pleased with their surroundings; but fire child soldiers on, stepping in Sacre's cloven hoofprints, fighting back the urge to huddle against the boy, take refuge in the warmth and safety he suggests. She wishes she could simply vanish into the snow, find solace in the icy expanse and disappear from their caravan of merchants, melt away and flow back to the Throat in a puddle of copper goo. It has been such a weary journey already; miles stretch behind them, miles she would happily retrace if only they would provide a noble escape from the task ahead.
It does not help that her entire soul is shaking with the pressure of being a lead. Nobody knows yet, not even Sacre- she feels guilty for keeping it from him, but tells herself it isn't even confirmed. For all she knows, Gaucho will revoke his offer the moment he realizes she has gone to the Basin, left behind responsibility to travel to the north. He wanted me to do things, she tells herself stubbornly. And I need to face my nightmares, if I want to be a knight.
As the entrance to the Basin rises into sight, the girl pauses to swallow her fear, black eyes tracing ice and stone. She forces herself to look away, pushes her eyes onto Sacre's back, the way his spine rises into his mane, the two colored ears which rise so eagerly from his crown. She watches his movements and moves in his steps, encouraged by the strength of her obsidian friend. The Unicorns of the Basin are a fearful myth, a wretched enemy which haunts her childhood, taunt her dreams. They are shadowy figures of a miserable war, half of the reason for the idiotic invasions which have plagued her since childhood, haunted her blood. Now, as walks into the entrance of their home, well... fire child focuses hard on her friend, reminding herself that if Sacre came from the Basin, it cannot be so bad a place.
She almost walks into him, so abrupt his his halt. Copper breast grazes his ebony hip- "Sorry!" she blurts, heat rising to her face, heart racing heavy as she blinks back surprise. At least you're warm now, comes Natraj's wry remark from his haven in her hair; she glowers at him mentally and lays back her ears, praying for the sun to subdue her poor nerves.
Beasts of metal tower over the entrance, sentinels who peer down on their small collection through unseeing eyes. Fire child finds them unsettling, strange, and shifts uneasily from the line of their gaze. Sacre calls his father, and the girl realizes she has no idea who the mystery figure is. Is he kind? Is he tall? What is it like, having a father? The girl does not know. Does Sacre have many siblings here, too? She knows, of course, of his mother's demise. Has the rest of his family remained behind these walls? Guilt washes over the girl again. Her best friend in the world, and she knows so little about him.
What sort of leader will she be, when she does not even know her best friend's father?
01-03-2015, 08:56 AM (This post was last modified: 01-03-2015, 09:00 AM by Deimos.)
Chaotic inflections of the barbaric strummed and slithered through the icy vestiges, through the bellicose threads of his home. The Reaper wandered from the seething depths of the lake, cooled, chilled, masked and immersed in its callous fathoms, soothed and assuaged from the blistering waves recently bound throughout his frame (fire, like his father, like his ancestors, brimstone and embers clenched in his veins), to the distinction of visitors lining his sovereign’s border. When he’d shaken the droplets from his marble form, when he’d pulsed and pervaded the loam with his nefarious puissance and pernicious schemes, the behemoth followed the wayward particulars streamlined into his sector, the intriguing bounty of Dragon’s Throat legions marching amidst the peaks. As the devil’s manifestation maneuvered, struck against the cold, the rime, the pockets of snow left and lingering, his machinations spun, convoluted, pondered over the arches and schemes of the dune settlers. To what purpose did they arrive? The world had been tossed and churned as of late, hostilities bound and brewing, circling overhead like bestial scavengers, ready to pick and clean the bones of the foolish: whose skeletal remains would they be provoke? While he burned with anarchy, while he seared with rebellion and revolution, the rest of his herd couldn’t embark within such artifices: not until they were ready, not until their muscles undulated, coiled, rippled with power, with potency, with macabre glee and tense, rigid, unyielding hymns. They had to be careful, wander on pins, on needles, on nettles, on barbs and thorns, clench their jaws and rub their teeth against the circumstances festering and colliding. Upon his arrival, the dangerous, treacherous means of his occupation, of his existence, surrounded the heathen raptures and infidel reverie; protected, shrouded, the most toxic of sanctums – extending a subtle, immoral nod towards the beasts grasped in snow, blocked by sentinel whims, permitted to step from beneath the haunted gallows. The Throat had been wise in sending one particular missionary: Sacre, a son of the Doctor, who had seemingly longed for sand and stone instead of glaciers and ice. He’d grown since the necromancer last saw him, launched from lad to adult, and received an understated smirk from the corner of his lips. The other, a golden mare, drenched in markings, followed by a fox (were they all wily, or did they require a cunning bonded to fulfill their flaws?), was unfamiliar, like the rest of the traveling troupe. His piercing, puncturing stare roamed over the visitors, the wayfaring vendors, announcing his title, his supremacy, “Deimos, Lord of the Basin,” before turning towards the sable stag, rendering his blunt chords and ferocious tidings. “Sacre – what does the Throat require?”
VOODOO && OUIJA i'm so happy 'cause today i found my friends
they're in my head
Late - as always - you follow the familiar, dry scent of the Throat; it has been years since you had last visited the icy mountains, and in the back of your mind you will always long for the first family to accept you to Helovia. Quietly we giggle in the back of your mind, eventually cursing ourselves for the break of our grip on your mind so long ago. You were directed to go along with younger herd mates, the colt that looks similar to yourself, and a young woman who has made herself a pillar of the herd. You know neither of them particularly well, and so far you haven't made the most impressive start to today.
Long legs shift uneasily through the snow and ice, your body now completely foreign to this weather that you had once been able to call "normal." Meanwhile, Ouija slinks through the powder with ease, her body fully equipped year-round for this climate. Her pink tongue lolls out from between white teeth, lapping at small drifts as she bounds by.
Eventually you find the trio, guarded by a huge mechanical man covered in fresh flakes; the stallion with the feline tail talks with low vocals, addressing Sacre first. Ouija freezes in her steps, the excitement that had just filled her small body drained at the sight of the dark Basin Lord. She waits - one paw still raised in the air as if she were about to take a big step - until you come to a halt behind the tanned girl.. and her fox.. and Sacre's fox. You want to smile at your family, but the emotions stayed masked behind glossy eyes.
His tangled thoughts that consisted mainly of old memories fuelled by lingering familiar scents were broken by a familiar touch. It sent a warm jolt through his body and his heart jumped in a way that was surely only meant for jaunty romantic fables. The brief moment robbed him of a coherent response with a nervous laugh bubbling out of his trembling lips "it’s fine" he hurriedly tried to reassure her. Feeling embarrassment claw at his face, Sacre took in a deep shaky breath and silently cursed his own awkwardness, was this going to happen every time they accidently brushed past one another? Meanwhile, Inari cast a withering glance to Natraj that told of his vexation towards his own bonded’s incapability to express his feelings. All personal anxieties were quickly washed away when the sound of hooves hitting the hard earth could be heard and the Reaper, Lord of the Basin, came skulking towards them.
Sacre felt a prickle run up his back, Deimos. The boy hadn’t had the chance to get to know his former sovereign all that well; he had attended the few herd meetings of which this Lord had commanded and had fallen into obedience under his unwavering gaze and powerful voice. Sacre always thought he was the kind of stallion you’d find hiding behind a headstone in a graveyard nailing a hard stare into your back. His Lordship welcomes them and Sacre offers him a respectful nod whilst noting the arrival of Voodoo with a quick flick of his ear. He’d greet his friend later, for now; there was business to be done. With a pause to settle his nerves, Sacre moved to ask a request of the Reaper with hopes that a deal could be struck with relative ease.
"My Lord Deimos, how fairs the Basin? I have a lot of fond memories with your family" he began, an amorous smile weaving onto his features. Sacre may have left the Basin for what he believed were better shores, but he still treasured the memories he had here and would never want to be rid of them. He went on then to nod to each of their small travelling group and explain there reasoning for showing up at the door of the wintry north "our company consists of Tandavi and Voodoo, we are here to request a crafted item by one of your Weavers." He paused, leaving his words to settle on the mind of the monarch before continuing on to complete his offer. "In return, I offer to craft you an object of your desire made from metal."
There, he had completed half of the task that Gaucho had sent their company to complete. Now, it was up to the Reaper and his crafters to complete the next part, if they so desired to grant him the wish.
Not in an obvious, malicious way. Not even in a fully palpable way. He is tall to be sure, but no taller than the girl; dark, but no darker than her mother; staunch, staring, intense of intent, but no more than many the child had known. No, the horror of Deimos is more nuanced than that, deeper, at least in her mind. His magic is oppressive, chokingly maroon, vibrantly citrus with a twist of rot; it sounds like a glacier and burns her lungs, stronger than nearly any she has encountered before. The girl has grown adept at filtering out power, taking it in stride- she barely notices Sacre's anymore. But she notices the Reaper's, and it makes her want to run.
Instead she stands, steadfast, and begins to shake.
It never occurred to her that she should encounter the Reaper on this expedition, and now more than ever she regrets opting to come along. She shuffles in the snow, grateful more than ever for the buoyant voice of Sacre, his gift for setting others at ease. She wishes she could curl against him, hide behind him, anything; she nearly jumps when Voodoo at last catches up, arriving at her golden hocks. For once, Natraj offers no comfort to his sister. He remembers their mother's tale of the Reaper, how he nearly killed both she and Kali when the took him as captive in an attempt to reclaim Mirage, just as clearly as she does.
She swallows, hard. Pull yourself together. Now.
Sacre has snatched away her opportunity for self-introduction, and even to a girl as short social skills as she, Hi, my mom kidnapped you seems an inept opener. A panicked laughter rises in her belly as she realizes Voodoo is the only one present who Rishima hasn't held captive at one point or another. Oh Sun God, fuck. Lungs fill up with frigid air as the girl takes a stabilizing breath, fighting her body, her mind, her fear. She feels like a wreck, useless- and makes herself look up, back into Deimos' gaze, because suddenly she realizes that looking like a cowardly fool in front of Sacre is a far worse fate than facing her fears.
It was a strange, uncertain, foreign smell that made her realize something was amiss. That something was different on this Spring day. The breeze brought forth scents of those who were not of the Basin, wafting like the smell of waste before her very nostrils, and the Weaver paused in the midst of an obligatory patrol and altered her course. Ears were perked forward, icy-silver and molten-gold oculars focused on the many little creatures that had gathered... One shadow stood out like the others like a sore thumb, familiar and whole, and it was to him that Rhiannon went.
Deimos the Reaper. Her Lord. One of two stallions she would respect and actively seek out company with.
Sashaying towards the assembled gathering, a polite smile pulled at the Brindled Devil's lips. Ah, pretender, deceiver... No, she didn't care a bit for their little visit, but Rhiannon knew of herd relations, of alliances and the like. Surely these individuals were here for a reason, and in the name of the Basin and her Lord and Lady, she had to behave... Even though it would be terribly hard. Dual-colored eyes darted between those who had gathered, those who had ventured from the Dragon's Throat. And what a venture it surely was! Two dark studs, one with a splattered, crimson side that she was positive that she recognized... But the female, the hornless female, Rhiannon was certain she did not know. Golden and terribly alluring, the Weaver offered her a glance before focusing on her Lordship.
"My Lord Deimos," she murmured to him in familiar greeting, confident steps pulling her up to stand beside the Reaper, but not too close. Never too close. The Weaver stood, head held high, regarding those that had come to their borders with a welcoming smile. "How can I assist? I am Rhiannon; one of the Basin's Weavers."
Business transactions, payments and plans, maneuvered, molded, shaped and contorted; a conniving, calculating mind sharpened at the interlude and opportunity. Deimos’ curiosity was further kindled and instigated, enlightened and intrigued, and while his machinations whirred and brewed, he narrowed his stare in quiet, unsaid speculation. What did the Throat desire from them? What need did they have of spools, of cloth, of thread, of strands of silk and lace? And then came the more noteworthy figure, for this was to be of equal measures: what could they acquire from them? Portions and pieces of metal, wrapped in cold, hard distinction: the behemoth’s gaze traveled to the sentinel on the horizon, the dissonant sheen, the glinting threats, the heightened awareness of anarchy and protection should they command it, and its unfinished half-brother, awaiting excavation and deliberation. It continued on, landing upon the shaking, trembling Tandavi, who despite her best efforts still managed to have a distinction of terror floating past her stalwart stance (and he didn’t know whether to commend her efforts or mock them, so he committed neither). His piercing stare narrowed for a fraction of moments, because she looked painfully familiar, but he couldn’t wile away, piece together, where he’d seen her before. The sentiments were disregarded and dismissed at another Throat member, then Rhiannon’s approach, which he was all the more grateful for – she’d have far more intellect towards the engineering aspects of their pending conversation. He gave her a brief, curt nod, and resumed his intimidating stance of menacing, sinister junctures, possessed of behemoth composure and infidel reveries: a guard for his castle, a sword for his sovereign. Tones were succinct, concise, and condensed, drummed from heathen raptures and furtive whims. “The Basin is well.” Not a lie, for they still continued thriving along the icy sculptures and the frigid caverns, potent and pernicious, awaiting opportunities to snag anarchy and make it their own once again. It would take time, diligence, and perseverance; something their realm had in spades. For now, they’d dabble in trades, composing and whittling down frayed edges and dismal fringes, filling in gaps and closing in on their puissant capabilities. Longing to ensure their deal could be completed, as he had no intentions of pressing a promise they’d be incapable of carrying (then the Basin would be empty-handed, and he preferred them gleaming and powerful, not discarded and forgotten), he proffered another query. “What do you need crafted?”
VOODOO && OUIJA i'm so happy 'cause today i found my friends
they're in my head
The stillness of the cold air makes you shift uncomfortably on flaky hooves, red tipped ears rotating like satellite dishes, never allowing a single howl of the wind so go unnoticed; the Reaper's dark gaze never lands on your for more than a second, but when it does, you can feel your jaws tighten as if he were about to lunge forward. Glass eyes flicker between Sacre and Tanvadi, the colt thankfully doing all of the talking while you and the girl take up space. A pang of jealousy digs into your brain while the red stained boy talks; he sports charisma and what appears to you to be bravery, while you stand silently behind the young man and the Fire Dancer, threatened by the mere presence of power.
Once your name falls from Sacre's dark lips, you nod respectfully. 'Deimos.. Deimos... Deeeeeiimmmmooossss' We murmur as we shuffle through the list of names and faces that you may recall from your short period of time within the snowy walls. Papers dance about in your skull as they're pulled from dusty document boxes, twirling to the ground and landing in messy piles that we don't intend to clean up. "The Basin is good." A man of few words, apparently, and a face you cannot remember from your childhood. We slump in our filthy corridors, waiting for this meeting to play out. In response to our failed attempt, your bloodied snout drops slightly, horned skull no longer held at a nervous height.
"What do you need crafted?" the Lord finally questions after rolling the question around for a moment. Meanwhile, another face appears from behind the shoulder of the Reaper, a feminine head full of hair and bright eyes. She greets the lord, then introduces herself as the Weaver for the Basin, Rhiannon. Ruby eyes squint against your curly forelock before you are able to shake them out of the way, Ouija curling around your right foreleg with a thousand questions buzzing through your brain as she chatters like a toddler. 'Why you nervous?' Finally she was putting together sentences rather than single - usually incorrect - words and terms. You glance down at the black-eyed kit, lips tightening while you do so.
You're not quite sure yourself why you're nervous.. Perhaps because you always are? Or maybe because the Reaper could easily take all three of your lives in an instant. Maroon eyes look up, staring at the freezing copper man that towers over the meeting.
01-25-2015, 03:33 AM (This post was last modified: 01-25-2015, 03:41 AM by Tamme.)
Strangers at his doorstep. The large, metal sentinel careening above the gathering he had been avoiding from a distance. There, stuck in the birdsong grasses, he had watched with curiosity, wondering why the band of mutts wanted anything to do at their borders. He was sure that this had something to do with Illynx traipsing around, making amends with all the other herds. Or that creepy white bitch of Torleik's who floated around like some goddamn bloody ghost with her abomination of a dragon hovering around.
He would never understand how his burly cousin had gotten ensnared by that mind-witch, but he dared not speak against her. He had no interest in getting his ass kicked by Torleik - not when he had more important things to do. What called him over, however, was the mention of metal. Two, dirt-clotted ears tipped forward, and he strode forward on bronze, cloven hooves, form thin and yet defined.
A massive lion's tail twisted around his haunches, snaking on its own accord while Kirchoff, curious, bounded swiftly to his side. The silver-eyed hellhound looked up at the group, inhaling their scent and finding that they smelled more more organic than the sterile smells of this snow-bound fortress. Then, his eyes locked onto the tiny, white creature, curious. "So little..." he murmured through their bond.
Ulrik raised a brow as he stood back, content to let Rhiannon do whatever speaking was necessary. The bronze's eyes glanced at the small kit, one side of his lips curling only slightly - the expression was easily missed. "You were that small once." He rumbled in return, sending positive emotion from his reluctant friend. Kirchoff believed him to be a dumbass barbarian, and perhaps he was not wrong, but Ulrik did care for him deeply.
Deimos asked what they needed crafted, and his gaze swept at the group. A smirk tugged at his lips. "Scarves... some nice scarves perhaps?" he asked, dark amusement dancing in his bronze orbs. He stared at the golden girl.
There was something about being on the other side of the Basin border that filled the colt with apprehension and, yet, at the same time there was a familiarity that numbed his nerves. Sacre hardly knew the Reaper, but had attended enough herd meetings as a child to grow used to the skulking monster’s stare. He had been an unknown but strong figurehead in the boy’s life at that time and this wasn’t really that much different. However, there was a shaking beside him and his overly concerned eyes fell on Tandavi in a swift turn to view the girl who seemed to be struggling under the air around them. Was she frightened of something happening? The colt had never seen her like this before, to him she had always oozed control and radiated brightly in every aspect so much so that he didn’t believe she would be daunted easily. It wasn’t like he could just ask either, a pause in proceedings whilst he requested the wellbeing of the fiery Lady who appeared to have lost her flare wasn’t exactly a great show, but the boy was on the verge of breaking protocol to comfort her. Though part of him warned that maybe Tandavi wouldn’t like him to show such a public performance and he dithered between what was best to do.
In the chaos of his inner turmoil a brindled mare that addressed her Lord and dragged Sacre’s attention begrudgingly away from his friend joined the gathering. His eyes brushed over her and a spark of recognition lit up causing a frown upon his brow as he leafed through memories to find where she was hidden in his past. It had been a cold day and the ground had frozen over, he was just a babe attempting to ice skate (not very well) when a dark filly shows up. Back in the present, the same similar eyes turned to their party and gave a short introduction. Rhiannon! A crooked smile curled onto the boys lips as he recognized the name and marvelled at her position at such a young age. The same thought caused him to think that perhaps he was the lesser talented of his generation with nothing but one failed stint at a grand title that never really suited him.
He turned to the other tattooed fellow who added to the unnerving atmosphere with his darkly delivered words and roved his eyes towards Tandavi. Concerned, Sacre shifted his body to try brush against her precious side as Inari padded over to sit by her forelegs, his tail moving to curl around one. The boy troubled himself over matters of his own inadequacy, there wasn’t much else he could do, he had no fancy tricks and he wasn’t very intimidating. In fact, he was a rather pathetic stamp of a colt that paled in comparison to fuller and more foreboding stallions. Perhaps it would be better if Tandavi looked for another more reliable and impressive looking friend who didn't look like a rabbit in front of a pack of wolves. "I think you’d find them more useful than us." He hastily replied, his youth missed the black humoured edge and he lacked his father’s well honed, quick tongue.
Gathering the scraps of his foolhardy courage, Sacre considered the questions before him and turned to Deimos. "A simple flag would suffice." The task was simple enough and hopefully it wouldn’t take too long. With an uncomfortable shuffle of his cloven feet the colt wished he could leave now, but there was one other matter that needed to be covered. "What do you want in return?"
More unicorns appear, and she notes with hysteric amusement that at least now the ones stolen by her mother are outnumbered again. She does not let her eyes leave Deimos, the unsuspecting Reaper, who stands as a pillar of malign intent and murderous magic, oblivious to the family she so poorly represents.
Slowly her breathing begins to level out, and the hurried pace of her frightened heart slows to some semblance of calm. His magic still bites at the corners of her ears and the curl of her lips, but it does not pull her, does not send her wild with horror and dismay. She must be strong, must represent a land, a people, a cause; she cannot fold beneath the pressure of her fear. Fire Dancer inhales, black eyes coasting from form to form, faltering only as they meet fierce bronze, lock into the fervid gaze of the stranger who has spoken least.
Black gaze narrows, and she exhales sparks, a defensive, instinctive response to the tall behemoth's piercing stare. Somehow she feels better, though, as her budding anger burns away the shadows left by fear. Scarves? She wants to laugh, a bubbling, ill-placed response to the words. What use do they have for scarves, in the desert? Is this actually a joke, or is she simply going mad from cold and seeping fear?
The latter seems likely.
Dark lips smile gratefully at the touch of her friend, and she finally surrenders to the situation, unable to fool herself into any semblance of control. She is grateful, so grateful for Sacre, who is kind and smart, who is braver than she and has forgiven her so many mistakes, and even now is willing to fill the roll she should inhabit, but is unable. She lets him speak and quietly nods, taking comfort in the brush of his skin; her crown rises, and some semblance of authority returns to her figure as she waits for judgment from the Reaper and his court, itching to run, ready to go home.
The meeting ran smoothly, no theatrics, no stagecraft, no simpering coils, or plaintive outcries: arrangements and settlements easily transpired. He remained calm and composed, not threatened, not overwhelmed, chiseled and refined in the chilling, smoking collection of sand-travelers and rime-inhabitants, glancing over the party, the shivering girl who managed to conjure a backbone, the kind Sacre, the adjoining Ulrik who postured sarcasm but not treachery, not danger. Flags were needed, and his ears swiveled back and forth, catching the aligning words, picturing dune pennants and dry streamers waving on top of cliffs, nothing too out of the ordinary, naught to cause question or concern. For them, his puncturing gaze glanced towards the unfinished sentinels one last time, the ghosts and embers of power, of mystique, one day fully capable of administering potency and lethality upon those who dared to cross into their borders without consent. They’d be able to drive merciless rhythms and catastrophic enterprises, sully foolish endeavors and inept tactics with seamless ease, with demonstrative precision, and the Basiners would be able to sleep at night without constant patrolling, without unnecessary tribulations. At the heart, at the core, of his yearning, was the need to protect, was the demand to preserve, safeguard, and shelter his empire from the wake of so many who longed to conquer it (to skewer the Regime, who sauntered and slunk in the shadows, awakened by an open prison). The Reaper’s stare hastened from Throat being to another, granting a brief nod in agreement and acquiescence, a chilling coat of arms in his deep vocals registering, resounding in the Siberian vestiges. “That would be fine.” He paused, turning towards his Weavers, quirking one singular brow, for he’d offer his entails, but they had every right to bestow their own as well. A twisting stone fixture, the monster’s words harked back over the horizon, a friendly, amiable gesture towards the statues at their borders. “We would like more metal to finish our Sentinels.” Finalizing the task at hand could fall to the Weavers, the true merchants who knew how long the whims would take and how many hours they’d require. Their judgment on the matter would be far superior to his own, for his skills ranged from battle to silence, and neither seemed viable in the present exchange. “You may work out details with Rhiannon and Ulrik.” Attempting to be a bit more welcoming, taking the words of the Time God to his unattainable soul, he bestowed an actual approachable gesture behind the reticent features and the marble brow. “You are free to stay within the Basin while you wait.” He’d have to extend hospitality if they were to gain anything from the other empires, besides peace, besides repose, maybe a poignant thought he’d learned long ago from the GildedBlade and simply never presumed suitable to put into action. Perhaps they’d find what made the glacial kin and brethren so proud, so dominant, so superior; or merely wait around the borders, biding their time until they could escape the icy confines.
The engineer's dark lips tugged into a devilish smirk as he watched the red and black stallion interrupt his gaze to the golden princess. Ah, were they lovers then? Awkwardly exchanging frivolous glances and dramatic words of tenderness? His bronze and green flecked eyes glittered in amusement, watching the entire drama unfold with amusement. The stallion wanted to tell them to bang and get it over with already. There was no point in this dancing around the subject, really. If there was attraction there, work it out physically. All this self-restraint was stifling...
Blah blah blah, chat chat chat. Oh, they wanted a flag. Ulrik hummed thoughtfully, wondering what obnoxious creations he could make on their banner of glory. Perhaps he should retrain himself, a virtue he had seconds ago warned against, and do this properly. Well that would just be boring.
"Ulrik, just do it right and get your metal..." his hellhound groaned in his head. "Honestly, you four legged equids are completely moronic... how much time has been wasted already with this incessant bantering and showing of force."
Ulrik grumbled in his mind and snorted. "Thank you, great peaceful lord Khirchoff for your fantastic advice."
The large brute flashed his tail around his hocks again, having lost interest in the golden princess for the moment. He was not attracted to her. He just enjoyed watching other squirm under the weight of his mad gaze. "I'll do it," he said simply. "Tell me what you want it to look like, and I will follow you to your home to collect the metal." He wanted that metal, and he wasn't going to let these slippery ones get away with not upholding their end of the bargain.
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